


Call of Home

by author_morgan



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Odyssey
Genre: Brasidas is a soft sappy husband, F/M, Reunion Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27891094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/author_morgan/pseuds/author_morgan
Summary: Brasidas comes home after having been away at war too long.
Relationships: Brasidas (Assassin's Creed)/Reader
Kudos: 22





	Call of Home

THE DAYS ARE long without Brasidas at your side, but the nights are even longer. War had called him away to Methone, his wit and shield needed to repulse the Athenians plaguing the sea-side Messenian _polis_. Intended to be short campaign lasting no more than two moons, it has stretched on into seven. Regiments came and went, but your beloved was never among them though the Spartiates spoke of his courage in battle and his ability to craft lucrative strategies on a whim. There were even rumors among the Lacedaemonians of the two kings’ interest in Brasidas’ feats with the word promotion whispered at feasts. 

Life cannot stop with his absence, though. There are still crops and livestock in need of tending and trades to make in the _agora_. You wipe the sweat from your brow and readjust your grip on the scythe. It was time to reap the golden fields of barley. As you work the blade, Pherenike gathers the crop into tight bundles for storing for the winter. Pausing, you set the scythe down and walk toward the stone well near the small farmhouse. 

Taking a drink of water, you sigh, recalling your last moments with Brasidas —a gentle and bittersweet kiss in the heart of Sparta. _Come back with your shield,_ you told him while forcing yourself to smile. _Or on it_ , he finished, placing the shell necklace he wore in your palm. Reaching up, you run your thumb over the smooth shell, longing for the day you could return it to your husband. Shaking your head of the memories, you return to the fields working in the midday sun. 

The day’s work is cut short by Eudoxos shouting whilst racing up a winding path to the farmstead early in the waning hours of the sun. “What is it?” You ask, offering the _helot_ a ladle of water as he catches his breath. He had gone to market to purchase a ream of linen and trade a basket of salted lamb for fresh apricots but returns empty-handed though wearing a widening smile. 

“A trireme arrived in Gytheion,” Eudoxos announces after hearing the news in the _agora_. You dare to hope this will be the ship that bears your husband. The months are long, and you miss your husband more with each passing day. “They say Brasidas is the trierarch,” he adds. If word had reached the _polis,_ then by the day’s end, you should see Brasidas marching up the worn path through the fields of grain to your home. The next hours will seem like days. 

“Brasidas,” you cry. He drives his spear into the soft earth and drops his shield. You leap into his waiting arms —embracing him tightly as he lifts you and turns. His smile so large the edges of his golden gaze crinkle. Even with your feet on the ground, you are not eager to let go of him, for it truly feels like _home_ again with his return. 

“What a fair sight you are,” Brasidas muses, stroking the backs of his fingers over your cheek and brushing away the dirt stains from working the crop. He bends forward, lips brushing over yours —it has been so long he fears he has forgotten how to kiss you properly— but with a quiet laugh, you chase away the distance and his worries. 

You kiss him like you’ve done a thousand times before, falling into the rhythm as though you never parted. His kiss, in turn, is gentle, echoing the longing he has endured since departing from your arms on a cold winter’s morning. Your fingers comb through his beard as you part, foreheads resting together. “I’ve missed you,” he breathes. You trace the new scar on his cheek, wondering if it is the only wound he bears from this campaign. “A mark of victory,” he notes softly, still cupping your cheek in silent adoration. 

“You must be tired, love,” you note, stepping back and lifting his bronze shield emblazoned with the red sigil of Sparta —it had served his family well for nigh six generations though now bore new dents and scratches. 

“Weary, yes,” Brasidas says, taking the shield from your hands and fixing it across his back. He plucks his spear from the ground and lays a hand against the curve of your back, continuing the trodden path to the small house. Many nights passed where Brasidas was unable to sleep, a mix of missing you and shouldering the responsibilities of his rank. Sleeplessness was a battle you fought too —waking up to an empty bed somehow stung worse than going to sleep in one. “It is difficult to sleep without you next to me,” he admits. 

Despite the years of marriage, his flattery —albeit laced with truth— still causes warmth to rise to your cheeks. “I’ve missed your charm,” you tell him. It was because of his charm and charisma you were able to call him your husband. Brasidas talked your father out of proceeding with the marriage he arranged for you, instead proposing he would make a better match, having been a longtime friend and someone quickly rising to renown within the Spartan ranks. 

“Is that all you’ve missed?” He teases with a soft chuckle, stepping back into his home for the first time in months. You watch as he moves in routine, propping his spear against the hearth and mounting his shield above it. He loosens the ties of his sword belt and hangs it upon a hook before starting to shed his armor. 

Taking one of his wrists, you loosen the vambrace and slide it from his arm, laying it on a low wooden table. “I’ve missed my husband,” you remark, reaching for his other arm, “my general.” He raises his brow, knowing you’d heard of his promotion while aiding Messenia, and cannot help the shiver that creeps down his spine at hearing his rank in your sweet voice. Brasidas lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your palm, and gives a silent nod of assurance that he will finish ridding himself of his cuirass and greaves. Turning to the washbasin, you splash water on your face —scrubbing away the dirt from the day’s work. 

He tells you of his exploits in Methone over a small meal of fresh bread and fruits —even reenacting one of the battles with grapes and olives before you both finish them off with cups of watered wine. Brasidas stretches his legs and drapes an arm over your shoulders, asking after the crop and the _helots_ , who are less slaves and more family. The harvest will be a good one, with plenty of stores of the colder months and enough to take to market. “You should rest, Brasidas,” you murmur against his cheek before rising —noticing the darkness encroaching the corners from the loss of Helios’ light. “There is always tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Brasidas agrees, standing too, one of his hands forming a loose shackle around your wrist, drawing you back to him, “but I after these lonesome and endless weeks?” The beginnings of a smirk kink his lips as he releases your hand and moves closer. “I want to feel your warmth, wife,” he tells you, voice dropping to a low rasp as he pulls the bronze fibula at your shoulder free, watching the linen flow down the length of your body like a crimson waterfall. You loosen the knot holding your breast band in place, discarding it on the floor as you step from the puddle of garments and to Brasidas. 

You smooth your hands across the planes of his chest and down his arms, feeling the warm corded muscle under your palms with a quiet sigh of content. Brasidas leans down to kiss your lips again before he moves to kiss your neck, making his way down to your breasts, kissing your skin as he goes, cupping each breast with his battle-roughened hands as he takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue around it and drawing soft moans and quiet whimpers from your lips.

When you pull Brasidas close, he pulls you closer —skin against heated skin. Each of his breaths is met with yours; kisses too. You feel the moan you coax from Brasidas against your tongue when your hand tangles in his short hair. He pays you back by slipping one hand from your back to your waist. It almost takes your knees out when he squeezes your bum, lifting you for a moment. But then his hand moves to your front and in between your legs. 

Then those deft and calloused fingers start playing you like a lyre —and you sing for him, or something perversely close. Moaning and sighing. But it’s music to his ears. Brasidas’ other hand holds you steady when your body begins to rock and writhe on its own. Another finger slips inside, and it has you shaking. But he stops too soon, lifting you to carry you to your bedchamber upstairs. 

His barrage of kisses halts when you loosen the knot of his loincloth, throwing it to the side. You roll your hips into his and feel the heavy length of his cock resting between your thighs. Brasidas reaches between you, stroking himself thrice before starting to press into you. He groans, mind reeling — _what is the love of the gods compared to a woman’s love?_ Brasidas bares his teeth, cursing as he slides into your warmth until your hips are flush together. 

The pace is slow but steady. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist while one of your hands reaches around his broad shoulders —feeling the muscles flexing and shifting beneath his warm skin. The other one cradles his scarred cheek, and your thumb brushes the skin just beneath his eye. In all the time you’ve known him, Brasidas has always been taciturn. Even though there are few words, he makes the most wonderful noises. Every kiss accompanied by a low moan and almost every thrust is followed by the throatiest grunt. Then those sounds change into desperate panting, his chest heaving against yours.

Brasidas’ whole body begins moving, surging, and writhing against yours. One of his hands caresses your cheek before he slides it down your body. Without thought, your body arches into his hand as it moves, ripening under his touch —thoughts clouded by lust and love. “Brasidas!” His fingers find your clit the same time his mouth latches to your neck.

His face hovers above you, keeping eye contact as the pace quickens with your name slipping from his lips like a soft prayer. The muscles in your lower body tense as your climax shudders through your whole body. You throw your head back and cry out Brasidas name, exposing your neck, which he peppers with kisses. The sensation of you tightening around him sends Brasidas over. He thrusts a few more times, shaky but solid, and groans from deep in his chest. 

You hold Brasidas right where he is. He kisses you languidly, tiredly, and you stroke his back —finding the small scar on his shoulder blade from when you were both children. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say how much I missed you, my love,” he breathes. 

“You don’t have to dwell on that,” you tell him, running your fingers through his hair —still holding him close, “we’re together once more.” He smiles against your neck. The stories said man was originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces, but fearing their power Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves. You’ve no doubt Brasidas is your other half because every time he returns home you are made whole again. 

He rolls his weight off you, but quickly brings you into his arms and draws you against his chest —the steady and strong beat of his heart echoing like a sweet lullaby. “Rest well, my love,” you whisper and Brasidas steals a final kiss for the night. For the first time since he departed, sleep comes easy for you both.


End file.
